


Delayed Tock

by ezlebe



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Divergence 4x14, Soulmate-Identifying Timers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23598871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ezlebe/pseuds/ezlebe
Summary: A short jingle breaks the silence of the room.“Huh,” Zsasz says, leaning in far too close for comfort. “That’s sooner than I expected.”“Eight years?” Oswald says, shooing him away with his other hand and looking at the countdown better in the light of the lamp. “I almost feel like I should take that as an insult.”“Three months, boss,” Zsasz says, clicking his tongue while his reaching out and circling his finger over the leftmost number. “That’s a D.”
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 8
Kudos: 98





	Delayed Tock

“Are you ready, sir? There will be a short sting.”

Oswald offers the TiMER technician a flat look, then holds his wrist for them to take it. The technician clears their throat and nods, hastily wiping down Oswald’s skin with cool alcohol before lowering the insertion gun. It’s more than a short sting, but he represses any reaction, keeping his eyes on the device while it powers on in an unhurried blink.

A short jingle breaks the silence of the room.

“Huh,” Zsasz says, leaning in far too close for comfort. “That’s sooner than I expected.”

“Eight years?” Oswald says, shooing him away with his other hand and looking at the countdown better in the light of the lamp. “I almost feel like I should take that as an insult.”

“Three months, boss,” Zsasz says, clicking his tongue while his reaching out and circling his finger over the leftmost number. “That’s a D.”

Oswald frowns and looks harder at the descending numbers, a painful thudding mounting beneath his sternum. He glances up at the TiMER technician, then to Zsasz, and clears his throat. “How very fortunate.”

“Is it?” Zsasz asks, tone markedly drifting with a dubious slant.

“Yes,” Oswald says with a snap, shooing the technician from the room with a firm gesture and a glare, thankful they scuttle away through the office door into the open checkbook of Mr Penn. “Not that it’s any business of yours, _Victor._ ”

Zsasz hums lowly, then tips his head with a raise of his browline.

Oswald can hear exactly what is not being said and points more demonstrably toward the door for Zsasz. “Out.”

Zsasz puts his hands up, backing away in a pair of steps toward the exit before completely turning around.

Oswald waits until he’s alone before he looks back down, tightening his hand briefly into a fist and feeling the sting of the new TiMER against flexing tendons. It’s not a lot of time. He glances sideways, out toward the balcony, where he used to be able to see the very top of Ed’s ice in the main lounge.

* * *

Oswald stares at the sagging, leaning ceiling of his cell as the TiMER goes off, dreading the rest of his day in a manner different to the usual. He hopes they’re a lawyer, or a doctor, an _orderly_ , even, as long as they’re not another inmate. He wouldn’t be surprised if his soul mate was, really – he often thinks his life has already hit rock bottom, but he very well might be able to dig himself deeper.

“What was that, Pengy?” A voice cackles, effectually chipping into that bedrock. “Don’t tell me you’re about to meet your _soulmate_?”

Oswald closes his eyes and grits his jaw; the best thing he can do at this point is pretend it isn’t going to happen at all. He’ll meet them, judge them, and likely have to kill them; he’s quickly resigning to the certainty it is an inmate, his luck no better than that, and he wants no one who would end up here.

“Oh, you sweet lamb,” Jerome croons, tapping at the rungs of the grate to a tune of his own. “Such a lucky, lucky boy - today’s _your_ day!”

Oswald tightens his arms over his head, ignoring the stinging burn from the cut across his face and swallowing back an urge to hum to himself. It would be used against him.

_Again_.

The next thing he knows is a bright light is flashing over the door and a key is rasping at the lock; he jumps up from his place between the bed and the wall, blinking rapidly while grabbing at the pillow in desperate attempt to brandish it. He spits out pleas of some sort, little more than reflexes, and knows he must look pathetic without even a thread of dignity to shield him.

“Visitor,” the guard says, shining the light down at Oswald like he’s no more than a bug.

Oswald swallows hard, realizing that perhaps this is it, and he truly has no idea who it could be – he has no appeals due, no friends, nor family. He offers the guard the best smile he can muster. “Care to tell me what they’re like?”

The guard blinks slowly, then jerks the door open wider with a crude gesture for haste. “No.”

“Nothing?” Oswald asks, as he’s dragged along to the visitors wing. “Nice clothes, perhaps – is it a lawyer?”

The guard remains determinedly apathetic and stoic, only losing focus on the path in front of them when digging out a key as they walk. They stop outside a familiar door to shove the key in the lock, then yank Oswald again by the bicep to force him into the grated room. “Fifteen minutes.”

Oswald nearly stumbles, but catches himself, only to feel his breath seize at the sight of Edward Nygma at their old visitor’s table in his old spot. He flinches backward into the wall when a cheery, haunting little jingle plays from both their wrists; time seems to stop in the wake of it, the space between them freezing with an anxious sort of embarrassment.

“You knew!” Ed snarls suddenly, standing from the table with vitriol loaded into his voice.

Oswald chokes slightly, scrunching up closer to the door - he’s half starved and exhausted, not quite prepared for an encounter with anyone, let alone a manic Ed. “I swear I didn’t – ”

“Not you,” Ed says, turning on Oswald with a hiss, then suddenly marching and turning to bare his teeth at the empty seat of the visitor’s table. Ah, _he_ had known, which is a little… Ed must truly be unbalanced if he’s speaking to himself in this way. “You tricked me! This proved the _opposite_!”

Oswald warily glances sideways to the attending guard on the other side of the grate, but they haven’t so much as looked at Ed, seeming as indifferent as the one who had escorted him to the room. He swallows hard, reaching backward to check the door and finding it locked, then winds his fists into the long arms of his uniform top – they had better move if Ed tries to strangle him.

“Shut up,” Ed snaps, still entirely taken by the presumed self in the chair, moving his hands in wide gestures. “He deserves to be in here – ” He freezes, then leans in close to smack hard the table. “No! I hope you’re happy – I’m leaving him here to rot!”

Oswald takes a sharp breath, looking hastily away when Ed turns from the table. He glances back after only a few moments, curious yet wary, and his eyes catch on a half-untucked shirt, a missing belt; he manages look Ed in the face, then, and belatedly realizes that Ed actually looks almost as bad as himself.

“What happened to your mother hating TiMERs?” Ed demands, clearly an attempt to be threatening, judging by the severe expression, but his voice is far too hoarse; it almost doesn’t make it across the room.

Oswald swallows hard, tightening the hold on his sleeves. “She’s gone.”

Ed sneers weakly, expression holding until the visitor’s door swings opens with a creak and the other guard steps aside; his gaze drops and his shoulders follow suit, then he quickly disappears, footsteps hasty across the cheap tile.

Oswald closes his eyes tight for a few seconds, trying to stop the shaking he can feel at his fingertips. He hears an odd noise, a beat later realizing it’s his own ugly laughter breaking the silence of the room; he can’t believe it – Ed is his soulmate. The taunting hand of fate has turned the entire reason he’d gotten the TiMER in the first place onto its head.

He opens his eyes and feels them burning, looking down and catching a… a little penguin on the table. He stares at it in disbelief, then reaches out and snatches it from the table, briefly clutching the paper to his chest in a manner he refuses to admit is a hug, then glancing to the guard at the door. “Not going to try and admit _him_?”

The guard barely looks back.

Oswald scoffs shortly, unfolding the little figure in haste and finding it to be a visitor’s pass. He swallows hard, turning it over and seeing neat scrawl on the other side:

_I share a bind in soul and mind, chain spread thin across folly and notion._

_Only one can ensure it’s not broken. The means? A name that must be spoken._

Oswald rolls his lips together, curling into himself and pressing his forehead to the paper. He can’t believe this… No, wait, of course he can – _damn it, Ed_ is basically a mantra at this point.

He thinks about Ed’s few words for him, dragging up his mother in this awful place, and belatedly remembers why Ed would even know that detail – he had once asked Oswald if he was ever going to get one. It had been an odd question to have before coffee on a too-early morning, stumbling down the halls to the dining room, even odder when the only excuse Ed would give for the curiosity is he had gotten his and… and…

It was blank.

Oswald stares at the pass in his hands.

No, that hadn’t been… _No_. It had just been typical Ed, curious one moment, oversharing the next. At the time, Oswald dismissed the conversation by assuming Ed was moving on from his _Miss Kringle_ and promptly forgot it, caring little about anything but the election. He’s certainly not going to… to try and apply anything sentimental to the encounter now, let alone _regret_.

A cleared throat and a grab at his arm makes him startle, shoving the paper into his shirt.

“Time’s up, Cobblepot.”

* * *

Oswald writes a letter and nearly kills an arrogant clown; he scrounges up a few thousand dollars and the reluctant service of a few guards; he even starts building his pride back from fear. He feels more alive than he has in almost two months, busying himself while he stays on tenterhooks, refusing to call it hope, for Ed to appear back in Arkham.

It takes a while, not quite forever but long enough for the days to blend together again, for a guard to once more shine a flashlight into the door. “Penguin,” the guard mutters, visibly hesitating until Oswald stands, then opening the door with a shuffle and a creak, soon taking a step back, out of the jamb and out of sight. “Gentleman caller for you at intake.”

“Intake?” Oswald repeats to himself, slipping out of his cell with a glance at the guard’s back, then briefly over his shoulder at Valeska’s door. He pinches his lips together, slowly making his way down less familiar halls and hoping he’s going the right direction, ultimately exhaling in relief when he turns a corner and finally sees a green figure hunched in an office at the far end.

He shuffles forward quickly, ignoring lesser inmates diving at their doors and the wide eyed look of the weasel-ly man lurking in a darkened hall near the excuse of a break room. The guard must have threatened him without discussing it with Oswald, which is both admirable and irking for an obligatory instant, but at this point he will extort _anyone_ if it gets him in a room with Ed.

“Half of Mississippi? Who cares.”

Oswald pauses with his hand on the door, furrowing his brow a beat before he decides to worry about all _that_ later, buzzing it open with a shaky breath. He feels his eyes grow damp just as he crosses the threshold and can’t control the smile that sweeps across his face when Ed turns around, relief breaking from his throat in a stilted laugh. “I knew you’d come.”

“What do you – ? _No_ , no,” Ed says, immediately jumping up and acting as if he’s about to leap across the desk; it’s a reaction that should be offensive, heartbreaking really, but it had been mostly expected. “You did this again!? Why can’t you just get over him!”

Oswald blinks a few times at the pronouns before he understands, seeing that Ed is glaring more over his shoulder than at him. He swallows hard and opens his mouth, briefly rubbing at the TiMER under his sleeve, “Please, we’re – ”

Ed suddenly lunges, all but stomping his foot. “I tore that up – why do you even have it!”

Oswald ignores an impulse to look over his shoulder at the surely empty space, know what Ed must somehow be seeing, if starting to get more than a little irritated at being nudged out of this conversation by a _hallucination_. “You got my letter! I knew you would – _he_ saw what I said. _He_ knows we’re connected.”

“Why is everything about that stupid TiMER?” Ed demands, scrambling against the edge of the desk while his voice pitches high with evident alarm. “It – it’s just a piece of plastic and code. All that meant was it was faulty!”

“You know that’s not true,” Oswald says, swallowing back a pang of hurt and trying to think about the note on the pass and his real Ed lurking in the back of this one’s mind. “You know he’s right and I just need to bring him back, make you – ”

“What are you talking about?” Ed interrupts, his shoulders hunching up while he makes a face that could be an attempt at aggressive, but only appears wretched. “How are you even – doesn’t even make _sense_ …” His eyes dart to the side again, lifting his hands to gesture like he might reach out to try and strangle the imagined Riddler. “Shut up, I just do not – I don’t feel _anything_ … Stop talking! I’m fine – Lee said my brain was _fine_. I’m Ed Nygma, just me! Not you!”

Ed turns around, reaching for the pen over his apparent intake paperwork. It’s a problem for another time, but what must be going on in Ed’s mind that he thought Arkham was _any_ sort of option?

“No!” Oswald dives forward in a moment of desperation, smacking feebly into Ed’s chest, then flinching when Ed’s hand tugs at his uniform collar, trying threaten him. He allows himself be pulled and swallows hard, forcing himself to keep talking while staring into Ed’s anxious eyes. “I know the part of you that knows everything between us is real is in there, wanting out, and – “

“Nothing more than a figment – ”

“And I’m going to give that t-to _you_ – ” Oswald suddenly, desperately wishes he had any proof that this would work; he had a hard enough time understanding Ed’s brain before discovering that somehow _he_ held the ability to lock and unlock parts of it. “You deserve it and I – I really _, really_ need you – ”

“Oswald, just – !”

“– _Riddler_.”

The change happens almost immediately: Ed suddenly going still, then hunching in closer with a faint laugh. His forehead meets Oswald’s a moment later, mouth and eyes turned up at the corners with an honest smile while his thumb swipes at Oswald’s jaw. “I knew you’d say it,” he whispers, other hand joining on the opposite side of Oswald’s face. “I knew you would.”

Oswald hums low shaky agreement to the continued mumbling, then takes a risk, lifting his chin to catch Ed’s lips. The following beat is tense, somehow startling, and then it’s the worst best kiss that Oswald has ever had – he’s still shaking from adrenaline, Ed’s not brushed his teeth in a month, the cut on his face still burns… but it’s with his _soulmate_ , his impetuous _love_. He bites down on Ed’s lip and hears a whimper, a groan, and next he’s laughing breathlessly against Ed’s mouth while palming over his chest.

“Oswald,” Ed says, with his own huffing breath, turning his head to nose softly into Oswald’s cheek and exhaling soft just over the forming scar.

Oswald opens his eyes in a pair of blinks, taking a few seconds just to look, then hesitantly lifts his hand from Ed’s chest. He slowly swipes through uneven, oily hair, tutting softly to himself. “You look awful – do you not bathe?”

“Not a priority,” Ed says, far too breezily, abruptly tightening his grip on Oswald’s face between his palms until it’s nearing uncomfortable. “If – if we’re doing this you…” He takes a deep breath, shaky and shallow, “You _have_ to say sorry.”

“For what?” Oswald squawks, trying to take a step back, only to realize he’s nearly up against the door. If Ed so much implies for that Isabelle, then Oswald is going to find the pen that went flying across the room and stab him with it, soulmate or not.

“For freezing me,” Ed says, face tightening with apparent anger that quickly folds into a desperation when he again more presses his forehead into Oswald’s, taking up his entire field of vision. “For putting me on the streets when I thawed out with brain damage; for calling me _dumb_.”

Oswald swallows hard, staring up at Ed and feeling the idea of an apology loosen slightly from his throat, only to remember something else. “You were going to shoot me!”

Ed balks at that, leaning back an inch or so while rolling his lips together. “You knew I wouldn’t.”

“I did not,” Oswald hisses, quickly becoming certain that Ed is now just _lying_ to win the argument. “I believed every second that you were about to pull the trigger right up until you lost the damned gun! Both times!”

Ed stares back hard, expression setting with a familiar stubbornness.

“Fine,” Oswald says, raising his brows and lifting chin as he realizes a different ploy to avoid this altogether, at least for now; he does _some_ regret throwing Ed out – had felt torn from the moment Ed had told him ‘ _do it’_ – but he’s not going to admit that because Ed is demanding it like a spoiled child. He raises his hand, counting off on his fingers while he begins to speak, “If _you_ apologize for taking away my empire, my mayorship, for _killing_ me.” He pauses a beat, then raises his last finger. “And for mocking me in the Narrows.”

Ed is quiet for a long few seconds, then lifts his chin with a short clear of his throat. “I… I apologize – ” his voice pitches slightly upward, “For not believing you could love.”

Oswald shifts his jaw, then narrows his eyes until Ed is barely visible. “I’m not sorry either.”

Ed doesn’t quite grimace, his eyes staying steady, but his hand twitches open and closed against Oswald’s arm.

“So… is this _happening_ or not?” Oswald asks, somehow managing to keep his voice steady through the bluff of indifference.

Ed exhales hard through his nose, rocking back and forth on his heels once while briefly tapping at Oswald’s shoulders with his fingers. “Come on,” he says, suddenly grinning, reaching out and startling Oswald by taking his hand before pulling him through the door. “I can get you out easy, but first I was hoping to stop in and stab Quimby with his own letter opener, and then – ”

“No, no – Wait,” Oswald says, tugging Ed back into the room rather than letting himself be dragged out. He tightens his hand around Ed’s, squeezing into his palm. “You have to get my boy, first.”

“Your _boy_?” Ed repeats with a growl, his expression quickly twisting into a furious refusal. He releases Oswald almost aggressively, taking a step back before he raises both hands while shaking his head back and forth. “I’m not helping some –”

“Ed!” Oswald grabs Ed’s wrists to halt him from taking another step away. “He’s a literal child – he’s nine. I adopted him.”

Ed is first motionless, then slumps slightly as he blinks behind his glasses in plain disbelief.

“He likes math, and manipulating his peers, and starting fires,” Oswald says, patting soothingly at Ed’s front, then grabbing at his tie to tug him down in emphasis and hardening his own voice. “He’s a good boy.”

Ed keeps silent for a long beat, then exhales hard while dropping his chin to his chest. His eyes stay down for the length of time it takes to properly fix his tie, then he looks up with a slanted grin. “Alrighty, Oswald. First the boy, _then_ I get you.”

“Then you get me,” Oswald agrees quietly, tilting his chin up just as Ed dips for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> I can also be found on twitter [ @ ezlebe](https://twitter.com/ezlebe?lang=en)


End file.
